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Will stops dead in his tracks when Charlie points at the building on the corner, says this is us with a pleased grin on his face. And Will hadn’t said anything when he’d been dragged out of bed before seven this morning, nor when they had boarded a train to D.C without so much of an explanation, had only grumbled slightly when Charlie had spent the whole journey ignoring his pleas to tell him where they were going, but —
“Did you bring me all the way to D.C to go bowling? You know they have that in New York, right?”
Rolling his eyes, Charlie prods him in the back and crosses the road without a word. Will has no choice but to follow.
The inside of the building is musty and dimly lit, which doesn’t fit with Will’s preconceived idea of what a bowling alley should look like, heavily influenced by the one time he went bowling as a child. It had been birthday - he was turning six, maybe seven - and his uncle had taken him into Lincoln for the day, told him he could do whatever he wanted. And Will wanted to go bowling. He remembers it being almost unbearably bright and noisy, and he remembers being terrible at it. Suffice to say he never went back.
The bartender gives them a nod of acknowledgement before turning back to whatever game he’s playing on his phone.
“Grab us a table,” Charlie instructs then walks away, past the bar, past the only other people they can see.
Deciding he’s just going to go along with whatever crisis the older man is going through now, Will drops into a chair at a table in the corner. There are three, maybe four, bowlers - two older men in the third lane, both seemingly taking it extremely seriously if their team shirts are anything to go by, and someone at the lane at the end. He can’t see them from where he’s sitting but they don’t appear to be doing very well if their latest frame is anything to go by.
He hears her before he sees her.
Just as Will is about to give in and order a drink, Charlie walks around the corner, an affectionate grin on his face. And Will can’t see who he’s talking to but he would know that voice anywhere. Her accent is one of the first things he noticed about her, and maybe that’s because they first met mid-broadcast (he’d stumbled over his words when he’d first heard her voice in his ear, trying desperately not to blush at the soft giggle she’d given him), but her voice has also proven to be impossible to forget, no matter how much of the last twenty-six months he’s spent trying to erase her from his mind.
“CNN gave me permission to explore other options,” she is saying, voice bitter and self-deprecating in a way he has never heard from her before. “And it turns out I don’t have any.”
Charlie responds but Will has no idea what he says because Mac comes into view then and he forgets how to breath.
She looks pale, thinner than he remembers. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen her in sweatpants before, with her greasy hair pulled back into a limp ponytail. She hasn’t noticed him yet, is ordering a drink at the bar, a small frown on her face as she listens to what Charlie is telling her.
He can’t take his eyes off of her, doesn’t know if he’s ready to talk to her or what he would even say. And then his mind flashes to the night she told him about Brian, and his blind panic turns to anger. He sets his jaw, shoulders squared, just in time for her turning around.
.
MacKenzie has no idea why Charlie Skinner has come all the way to D.C. to talk to her and, if she’s being honest, she’s a bit annoyed that he interrupted her game. Especially as it feels like he’s judging her. And don’t the regulars do that enough?
But she’s intrigued enough to listen, trying not to appear too eager as she follows him to the bar. Doesn’t want to get her hopes up either. There are plenty of reasons the president of a news division would hunt down a disgraced former EP at a bowling alley in the middle of the day. She’s sure this happens all the time.
She can feel Charlie’s eyes on her when she orders a beer, is grateful when he doesn’t say anything. She’s not entirely sure what number of beer this is today and she also doesn’t really feel like explaining herself.
“I won’t keep you,” Charlie promises, a twinkle in his eye when he says, “I’ll have you back to your game in no time.”
Letting out a deep sigh, Mac accepts the drink from the bartender with a faint smile, turns to follow Charlie to a table.
She stops dead in her tracks when she sees him, and it’s only Charlie’s hand on her elbow, gently guiding her, that gets her moving again.
Will looks good. He looks angry, but he looks good. He could do with a haircut and she doesn’t even want to know who chose that shirt for him, but he looks exactly as she remembered and it’s almost enough to make her cry.
She hesitates briefly before lowering herself into the seat across from his, Charlie on her right grinning widely as he looks between them.
MacKenzie doesn’t know what Charlie expected to happen. Maybe he thought Will would see her and instantly forgive her, that they would easily fall into conversation; they have so much to catch up on, after all. Anything but this strained silence, an unbearable tension as Will stares straight ahead, body radiating tension as he does his best to ignore her.
Charlie, for some reason, is still smiling.
“What’s going on?” Mac asks eventually, lets out a resigned sigh as she glances at Will out of the corner of her eye.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Still grinning, eyes almost manic, Charlie motions between them. “Will needs a new EP. MacKenzie needs a job.”
This is the absolute last thing she expected him to say and it’s clear, by the way Will’s face drops, that he hadn’t been expecting it either. He doesn’t say anything, however. And she wonders how long his silence will last, how committed he is to hating her.
Charlie seems happy to give her time to process, turning away slightly to watch a group of bowlers in the lane nearest them.
MacKenzie takes this opportunity to drain half her beer, wipes her mouth with her sleeve before speaking.
“I have a job. Or, I’m starting a job. Next month. It’s called Lunch.”
She’s certain she hears Will stifle a scoff beside her and it feels like a victory of sorts. Charlie’s isn’t as courteous in hiding his disdain
“Lunch?”
“Yes. It’s a new daytime talk show where five people discuss the issues of the day. As well as lunch which will be prepared before our eyes.” Mac knows she sounds defensive, arms crossed over her chest as she stares them both down. The show sounds terrible. It goes against everything she stands for and she’s not afraid to say it’s beneath her. Or it was. She’s not so sure anymore.
“And if that doesn’t work out,” she continues, hoping the grin on her face doesn’t look as forced as it feels, “I’m going to qualify for the Ladies Professional Bowling Tour.”
“I don’t think you are.”
And she doesn’t know when Charlie’s look of fond amusement changed to one of mild concern. She reaches for her beer and takes a long drink, no longer caring what they think.
(That’s a lie; she can feel Will’s hardened gaze and she’s pretty sure it’s the reason her heart is pounding in her chest. That and the fact he still hasn’t said anything, is still acting like she’s not sitting in front of him for the first time in twenty-six months. For the first time since she told him about Brian.)
“Based on one frame?” Mac asks Charlie, trying to keep the mood light despite the rising panic and nausea she is feeling. One of many souvenirs from her time embedded.
“That’s your calling?” Will asks snidely, a callous look on his face that she doesn’t quite recognise. “What happened to reclaiming the fourth estate? An hour of news that’s a genuine public service? Did you ever actually believe any of that or was it just a line you used to get me to do what you wanted? You used to care about that shit, MacKenzie.”
Despite the harshness in his tone, it seems he still can’t help the way his voice softens when he says her name. It’s disarming and familiar and heartbreaking all at the same time.
Mac furrows her brow, eyes focused on her fingers as they frantically peel at the label on her bottle; a nervous habit she’d picked up somewhere between Baghdad and Peshawar.
“You did, too,” she says quietly, and she hates how unsteady her voice sounds, hates that Will is seeing her like this, weak and vulnerable and broken. Hates that this is who she is now.
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one day drinking in a bowling alley because I lost my job.”
Will shrugs one shoulder, aloof and indifferent, and this seems to awaken something inside her, because what the fuck does he know? She’s seen death and destruction, has lived through things he couldn’t even begin to imagine. Hell, she’s filed stories from caves, all while he’s been safely tucked away in a studio in New York too scared to even pick up the goddamn phone.
“You think I’m sad because I’m out of work? Fuck you, Will.” She turns away from him furiously, determined not to let him see how much his words have affected her. His cool detachment unnerves her. She could cope with, had been expecting - deserves - anger. But she’s never seen this side of Will before and she has no idea how to respond. “You have no idea—“
She shakes her head, reaches for her beer with trembling hands, easily finishes it off. She considers ordering another but isn’t quite sure she’s ready to face any more judgement.
“I’m still on Afghanistan time,” she weakly explains to the look of consternation Charlie gives her.
“I take it that’s not your first beer of the day,” Will says after a moment. And she is caught off guard by the way his voice softens, the almost gentle look on his face as he watches her closely. He rests his forearms on the table, leans forward without breaking eye contact. And it’s almost too much.
“I’m not sure,” Mac begins softly, trying to keep her tone flippant as she moves her gaze between the two men, doesn’t quite settle on either, “but I think the reason I’ve been drinking lately is to numb the feeling of despair.”
Frown lines etch themselves onto Will’s face and he looks like he wants to say something, like he wants to ask her what happened to you? And she’s grateful he doesn’t because she wouldn’t know where to begin. How to tell him that she’s scared to go to sleep, that more often than not she wakes up screaming, skin soaked with sweat and hair plastered to her forehead. That she’s started avoiding crowds and loud noises because she was getting sick of having panic attacks and she’d rather not take her medication if she can help it. That some nights she ends up so drunk she can’t make it home and has to phone Jim to pick her up.
So she settles on letting out a light chuckle in response to Will’s questioning gaze, painfully aware of how feeble it sounds as she motions vaguely to her torso and explains, “I was stabbed — in the abdomen.”
Charlie nods slowly, a gentle look of understanding on his face, and she briefly wonders how he found out, if the bosses at CNN had sent word of it down the wire, despite her begging them not to. Even in her morphine-induced state, she’d had no desire for anyone to find out. Can only imagine what it must have been like for Will to find out from some intern, to report the near death of a woman he once loved — that is if she’d ever made it to air. If she’d been a big enough story to get past even the first rundown.
But it very quickly becomes clear that Will has no idea what she’s talking about.
He’s frowning, and she can tell by the way he sets his jaw, clenches his trembling hands into fists, that he’s doesn’t want her to see how much this is affecting him.
So she keeps her tone light, tries to make a joke about being sewn up and budget cuts, but she’s finding it increasingly difficult to focus on anything other than Will’s panicked gaze. Digs her nails into the palm of her hands, teeth pressed harshly into her lower lip to distract from the pressure in her chest, the pounding of her heart.
Charlie says something, leans forward to gently press his hand to her arm, but MacKenzie can’t hear anything past the blood rushing in her ears, can no longer focus on anything but the way her throat feels like it might close up.
She excuses herself, has had countless panic attacks before and if she can just get to the restroom, or somewhere semi-private, she knows she can get this thing under control, take a Xanax and continue their conversation. (Not that she’s delusional enough to think Charlie will still want to hire her after this. And not that she thinks Will will ever give his approval in the first place.)
Later, when she thinks about it with a clear head, she really shouldn’t be surprised that Will follows her into the ladies room.
.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Charlie is still grinning for some reason, and there’s a feeling of dread or something else that Will can’t quite name as the older man motions between them and says, “Will needs a new EP. MacKenzie needs a job.”
Will keeps quiet, is still using all the energy he can muster to stay angry with her. Which is becoming increasingly more difficult as he watches her neck a beer at eleven a.m on a Monday, takes in the lines around her eyes. Her eyes which once sparkled with passion and drive and ambition are now dull and lifeless as she tells them about her new show.
And even Will can’t quite manage to hide how he feels about this, because the MacKenzie he knew would never have stood for that shit, would have laughed the idea out the door then gone on a rant about America and civility and reclaiming the Fourth Estate.
And maybe he shouldn’t be surprised that she’s no longer the MacKenzie he knew. The last time he saw her she was crying in his doorway, voice hoarse and raw as she begged for forgiveness; the time before that she was smiling at him from the other side of his desk, eyes soft with affection, and so loving as she pressed a kiss to his hand, told him she’d see him at home.
And now — now, she’s disillusioned and hardened, scarred in ways he could never imagine. So vastly different to the MacKenzie in his head. Of course, it was probably unfair of him to expect her to still be the same woman she was twenty-six months ago.
For whatever reason — maybe because he’s an ass, maybe because she betrayed him and he’s still not over it, maybe because she’s the most talented EP he knows and she’s signed on to do a show called Lunch; either way, for whatever reason, when he feels he is finally able to speak around the lump in his throat, it’s to make a snarky comment about Mac’s journalistic integrity.
As though it hadn’t been her idea to turn the show into something they could both be proud of, as though she hadn’t marched into his office after their first broadcast and accused him of pandering for ratings, as though she hadn’t supported him in becoming the anchor he’d always aspired to be.
She turned up one day, changed his show, changed his life. Then cheated on him and broke his heart. So when she turns his own words back on him, a soft you did too as she still won’t meet his eyes, he feels slightly more justified when he tells her,
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one day drinking in a bowling alley because I lost my job.”
“You think I’m sad because I’m out of work? Fuck you, Will.” She hurls the words at him, voice full of anger and vitriol, and the glimmer of rage in her eyes is a relief of sorts. This is the most she’s looked like herself all day and it’s almost comforting in an odd, inexplicable way. “You have no idea —“
Mac reaches for her beer, a near desperate look in her eyes as she brings it to her lips, and Will doesn’t know how he didn’t notice it sooner. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes glassy, there’s a slight tremble in her hands. And he can feel all the anger, the bitterness and betrayal he’s held onto for nearly three years, he can feel it start to ebb away as he leans forward, really looks at her now, and says, “I take it that’s not your first beer of the day.”
Mac hesitates for the briefest of moments, teeth pressing into her bottom lip as she tilts her head at him.
“I’m not sure,” she says, and he knows her well enough to know that the light tone of her voice is forced, that she isn’t looking at either of them so the tears don’t spill. “But I think the reason I’ve been drinking lately is to numb the feeling of despair.”
Will can feel himself frowning, desperately wants to know what happened to her, what she’s lived through. Can’t quite bring himself to ask.
And he’s trying so hard to ignore the rising sense of guilt, to hold onto his anger. Because the alternative would be forgiving her, and he’s not spent the last twenty-six months hurting and drinking himself into oblivion for her to be let off the hook with a sob story.
“I was stabbed,” Mac says weakly, hand hovering awkwardly over her stomach. “In the abdomen.”
Her words give Will pause and he doesn’t quite know how to respond. This isn’t a sob story; it’s a real goddamn trauma. It’s also the last thing he had been expecting her to say and he’s not sure he knows how to process it.
He can tell by his expression that Charlie already knew about it, which is all kinds of fucked up because how did it never get back to Will then? If he’d known — Honestly, if he’d known, what would he have done? Would he have gone to her? Picked up the phone? Answered her freaking emails?
He doesn’t know the answer to that. But he does know that it hurts to imagine MacKenzie lying in a hospital bed, scared and wounded, hurt and alone, thinking he didn’t care.
She looks like she’s on the verge of a panic attack and, if he’s being honest, he isn’t faring much better. So when she excuses herself, heads in the direction of the restroom, Will doesn’t even think twice about following her.
A woman exits the restroom as he is trying to enter, gives him an appalled look. He thinks he mutters some kind of apology but he can’t really see past MacKenzie bent over at the sink, forearms resting on the counter, shoulders heaving as she lets out loud, gasping breaths.
“MacKenzie,” he says softly, trying to keep the panic out of his voice. He slowly crosses the room to stand beside her, unsure how she would react to him touching her. Now he is beside her, however, he can hear her trying to count, voice harsh and strangled.
Will lets out a deep breath of his own. Counting, he can do that. So he leans against the counter, close enough that he can almost feel her (which he thinks is probably more to comfort himself than her at this point) and starts to count along with her, low and gentle.
MacKenzie’s breathing starts to even out but she doesn’t move from where she is hunched over the sink, doesn’t even lift her head. She does, however, blindly reach for his hand, squeezes so hard that it almost hurts. Not that he minds.
The door opens then immediately closes and the thought of someone recognising him and selling their story to the tabloids briefly flashes through Will’s mind, but he dismisses just as quickly. Is quite happy to stand in the ladies room holding Mac’s hand for as long as she needs.
“I didn’t know,” he blurts out. Doesn’t even know if Mac can hear him until she squeezes his hand for him to continue. “That you were stabbed. I didn’t know. I’m not saying that I know what I would’ve done if I had found out — but I wouldn’t have ignored it.”
She exhales shakily, her body still trembling slightly as she straightens her spine. But her breathing sounds somewhat normal and she no longer looks like she might pass out.
“I know.” She meets his gaze in the mirror, eyes full of understanding in a way that makes his heart ache. She hasn’t let go of his hand. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t know what she’s apologising for, and he thinks he might be too afraid to ask.
Will watches her in the mirror, finds he can’t look away. Can’t find the words either, but that might just be because he has no idea what he wants to say. Has no idea if he’s still angry, if he wants to be angry, or if he wants to try this whole forgiveness thing.
Because no matter what she did, no matter what happened to her, she’s still MacKenzie and he still loves her.
“We should get back,” she says quietly, lets go of his hand to wipe at her eyes.
And, just like that, he knows that as soon as they leave the bathroom, he’ll go back to being the Will who is mean and bitter and she’ll go back to being the MacKenzie who broke his heart.
So before he can talk himself out of it, he reaches for her and pulls her into his arms. Mac reacts instantly, her arms winding around his waist, one reaching up to hook around his shoulder as she holds him tightly, buries her face in his neck. He tightens his grip on her, one hand tangled in her hair, the other splayed across her back, fingertips gently grazing the curve of her waist. He lets himself press a kiss to the side of her head. She smells like stale sweat mixed with the same shampoo she’s always used - lavender, he thinks - and he can’t get enough of it.
They stay like that for God knows how long, too preoccupied by the comfort and familiarity of being in the others arms again to even think about Charlie sitting out there by himself. Until the door opens and they’re faced with reality once more. Or, to be precise, faced with the same woman as before giving them a look of pure outrage.
Mac pulls away first, a smile on her face that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Come on,” she says, gently nudging him with her elbow. “Charlie’s waiting.”
And, as always, he has no choice but to follow.
Charlie, it turns out, hadn’t been waiting at all. He’s joined a group of bowlers and, from the looks of it, is currently trading tips and techniques. He comes over as soon as he spots them, however, a warm grin splitting his face.
“Well?”
“Well what?” MacKenzie asks. But she seems much more relaxed, a lot less guarded.
“Should I get my people to call your people?”
“I—“ she hesitates, glances nervously at Will out of the corner of her eye. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
Charlie gives him a pointed look at this so he awkwardly shuffles away, turns to watch a woman who seems to be well on her way to bowling a perfect game. (Of course, he can still hear every word they’re saying.)
“You’re not exactly slaying them in the lane aisles her at Lucky Strike,” Charlie says fondly, and Will can only imagine the consoling look on his face as he says it, has been on the receiving end of it way too many times.
Mac murmurs something that Will doesn’t hear, but whatever it was has made Charlie change his tactic. Because he laughs softly and, when he speaks, his voice is gentle and reassuring.
“Will may have been at his best when you were his EP, but I'd remind you that you were at your best when he was your anchor.”
Will glances back in time to see the thoughtful look on MacKenzie’s face, brows knitted together and bottom lip tucked between her teeth as she considers this. After a moment, her expression softens and she gives Charlie a grateful smile.
“I’m not—“
“Just think about,” Charlie says, handing her a card. “An offer’s on the table.”
“Okay,” she murmurs, slips the card into her pocket.
“Keep your wrist straight,” he adds, miming bowling a ball as though this would make the slightest difference to her game.
Will waits until Charlie is well out of earshot before he turns to face MacKenzie fully. She looks nervous, almost scared of what he might say. And, to be honest, he isn’t entirely sure what words are going to come out his mouth next either.
Charlie was right; they had been onto something during the short time they worked together at CNN and who knows what they could achieve together this time around. But it had taken a lot of persuasion for him to come around to MacKenzie’s idealistic vision of what a news show should be. And he’d be lying if he said the hit the ratings took hadn’t bothered him. Currently his ratings are through the roof. So what if he compromised a large part of his morals and principles to get there? It’s not like he could have kept the show the same with a different EP. Without MacKenzie. And so what if he’s no longer as proud of the show as he once was? The show’s doing well, he’s become a household name and —
“You should take the job,” he tells her before he even realises he’s opened his mouth. Doesn’t know who’s more surprised by his words. “If you want it. Don’t turn it down because of me.”
“Thanks.” MacKenzie nods, eyes welling up as she bites back a smile. “I, uh — I still need time to think. But, thanks.”
“Alright.” He returns her nod, smiling for what has to be the first time all day. “I’ll— I’ll see you around.”
“See you around,” she murmurs softly, and he can feel her eyes on him all the way to the door.
.
Will somehow manages to put her out of his mind (this is a lie; he’s thought about her everyday for twenty-six months and he’ll think about her everyday for the next twenty-six months) until he takes part in a panel at Northwestern, swears he can see her in the crowd.
He’s distracted, knows he isn’t giving the moderator much to work with. But she’s here, it has to be her. And he wonders if she’s called Charlie yet, thinks about what it would be like to work with her again, to forgive her. Doesn’t think it would be the worst thing in the world.
And then she’s holding up a sign.
It’s not, but it can be.
And when he sees her, standing in the newsroom three weeks after whatever the fuck that was at Northwestern, and she’s really there, eyes crinkling at the sides as she gives him a smile filled with hope and affection, he can’t help but think that he’s completely and utterly screwed.